


Smoke on the Water: Bonds of Old Domestic Short #1

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Medieval Fantasy 'Vengers Cakeverse [5]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Bonding, Domestic, Domestic Avengers, I'm back!, M/M, Multi, Part of a larger series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Soul Bond, Swords & Sorcery, Team Free Will (Supernatural), Thieves Guild, Trauma, medieval cakeverse, yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24042094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: Lord Anthony Stark never thought he'd settle down with anyone much less find himself bonded to a solider straight out of legend, an ex-brainwashed assassin, and a beautiful but deadly spy. He also didn't count on being kidnapped, implanted with a magical device in his chest, fighting a lich, and saving his city of Burosey along with a ragtag band of thanes and lords and hunters. It's no wonder he's having trouble sleeping or focusing or stopping his heart jumping at every little sound.  Now he has to figure out a way to keep every little doubt and bit of panic from creeping across the bond; Steven and James and Natasha have their own problems to worry about. The last thing they need is to see how messed up Tony really is.Dean Winchester can't rest until he gets some answers.  When a seer he's worked with in the past shows up, claiming to have a message for him, he can't resist hearing what she has to say. Maybe, with the help of another old friend, he might be able to avoid the psychopath who's gunning for him and find out who put those handprints on his arms.This is a continuation of my Bonds of Old: Medieval Fantasy 'Vengers Cakeverse series and is set immediately after "Under the Brave Black Flag"
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Medieval Fantasy 'Vengers Cakeverse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/57055
Comments: 133
Kudos: 71





	1. "Bang, Bang, Bang on the Door, Baby"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm baaaaaack!
> 
> This is the first in a series of smaller stories set in the Bonds of Old: Medieval Fantasy 'Vengers Cakeverse. Each one will focus on one or two main characters with the purpose of exploring how they're dealing with the life-altering events happening around them. The fics will be shorter in length and narrower in focus. I'm calling them "domestic shorts" and using them to flesh out characters. Don't expect big battles; these are about their lives, dealing with the details, and furthering the smaller plot lines. 
> 
> We start with Tony & Dean in Burosey in the aftermath of the Battle. Numerous references are made to the events of that story. If you haven't read the rest of the stories, it would help make sense of what's going on here. 
> 
> Future domestic shorts will include a pregnant Darcy and her worried husband Bruce, Sam Winchester and Carol Danvers at Bobby Singer's, Sam Wilson, and Steve & Bucky. Everybody's favorite OC, horse/dragon wrangler Andrew, might even get his own tale! Oh, and of course, Clint & Phil who are about to have an unexpected visitor.

The midmorning light streamed across the table, casting long shadows of the tiny parts strewn across the table. Boxes of screws and washers, bits of wires and partial joints mixed with plates of metal, empty spools of soldering wire, and an array of tools. Smoke hung in the airs, acidic smell of burning as melted drops cooled and solidified. A tiny strip joined to another, beveled to fit together, move and articulate, slide and retract, an elegant solution to a perplexing problem. Just a tiny bit more, the smallest thread spun between the …

_**BOOM.** _

“Damn it.” 

The slim iron popped out of Anthony’s hands, hit the edge of the parchment filled with drawings. The paper began to smoke; he burned his fingers, accidentally grabbing it by the hot end. 

“Holy hells.” 

He dropped it on the floor, jumping off his stool as it skittered across the stone. The shoulder spaulder spun the opposite directions, delicate pieces giving way. Pushing his stool back, he stood up and looked down at his shaking hands. Quick breaths, chest rising and falling, a wave of anger swept over him and he pushed the whole mess off the other side, scattering it across the room. 

“Tony?” James Rhodes, First Knight of Burosey, stood in the doorway. “Can I help?” 

“What I need is peace and quiet so I can focus,” Tony replied, biting each word sharply. “And the right Gods be damned wire. This is never going to get done if I keep getting interrupted.”

**_BOOM._ **

Another loud clap of metal on metal; Tony jerked back, knocking into another table and sending more pieces flying. His chest tightened, lungs contracting until he could only manage tiny scoops of air that barely filled his mouth. 

_ Red glared from the darkness of the cowl, raspy voice grating over Tony’s skin. “Tell me what I want to know.” _

The trembling started, a pit of cold opening in his gut that spiraled up his spine. A flare of warmth on his hip and cheek pushed it back, bond flaring to life. 

_ James’s face, blue and caked with ice, eyes wide and staring at Tony. _

Curling his hands into fists so tight his blunt nails cut into his palms, Tony wavered as the world threatened to collapse in on him. Steven’s tendril of concern touched him, close by; further away, James and Natasha turned his way. 

_ “Of course, I had you kidnapped; you’re more than useless,” Obediah said. “After I kill you, I’ll kill your friends, starting with Virginia.”  _

Slamming the connection shut, Anthony pushed his lovers out of his head. The room faded. His knees gave way. Tremor became shaking. Too many thoughts filled the space. 

Dean dead but not dead. Pepper missing. The Bishop kid crying. Steven frozen at the bottom of an icy lake.

Burosey people, some begging for mercy, others spewing hatred taught by the Men of Letters. 

_ “You’re the heir,” his father told him. “It’s your responsibility, Tony. Grow a pair and do what you have to.” _

He was drowning, heartbeat loud in his ear, pressure at the base of his skull; he should have stopped it, should have come up with a solution sooner, saved lives. 

***Tony*** a whisper of the others, their love strong enough to batter through.  ***Tony***

His fault, all of it. 

“Hey, hey.” Rhodey’s voice cut through the din of recriminations. “Focus on me.” 

James, who’d fought Hydra, had defended the castle. The friend who never asked for anything and had stayed by Anthony’s side all the dark years.

“That’s it, come back to me, Tone.” 

Standing side-by-side with Maria Hill, cutting down the invaders, James had kept all his promises.

***Here. We’re here***

“You’re in your workshop. It’s just past midday. You’re working on a new arm piece.” 

Workshop. Armor. He’d been building a suit, one for …

“Dragon.” The word shivered but managed to find its way out of Anthony’s mouth. “For riding Brook Lyn.” 

“Yeah? Is that why you’re using a leather backing?” 

Steven astride the red scales, arms around Anthony, holding him close as the shoulders beneath them bunched, wing tipping and banking to the left. 

***Hold you. Always.***

“Flex … flexibility. And warmth. It’s cold up there.” Anthony blinked then looked up into James’s face. “Need more mobility to twist and shoot in all directions.” 

“Thus the smaller sections? Looks like a hybrid between chain and plate.” James tucked an arm under Anthony’s shoulders and helped him up from the floor. “I’d say it’s genius but your ego is already too big.” 

“No such thing.” Anthony spread his fingers and took a couple of long breaths until they steadied. “And wait until I tell you about the underwater armor I’ve got drawn up.” 

** _BOOM._ **

He started, gripping the table edge as the sharp stab of panic came back. 

“They’re resetting the gates.” James ran a calming hand along Anthony’s arm. “Putting in the new pin and hinge design Dean came up with. Takes some brute force to get the pins in the sockets, but it’s going to make them easier to move and impossible to knock down.” 

“Right. A Winchester original, one-of-a-kind.” Anthony stepped back. “Speaking of Hunter Boy, he was supposed to be back with more soldering thread by now. Probably got sidetracked by a good-looking pirate … or he’s lying in a ditch somewhere. Man can’t seem to keep from dying.” 

James winced but didn’t call Anthony on the tasteless joke. 

“Too soon, I know, but I’m not at my best at the moment.” 

***I’m coming.***

“No,” Anthony said. 

“No?” James asked. “It wasn’t that …” 

“Not you. Steven.” Tony’s mouth ran away from him. “This feeling what I’m feeling … I can’t get used to having three other people in my head.”

“The bond.” James nodded. “Pepper was speaking of that yesterday, about knowing how Maria’s guard training was progressing by the level of frustration.”

“My brain’s already crowded on a good day,” Anthony said. “Fitting in two old men and the Black Widow is a more complex equation.” 

“So you're keeping things from them?” James had been Anthony’s friend far too long to miss the implications. “That you’re not sleeping? Spending all day building new suits of armor? Obsessing over being prepared for the Sorcerer’s next move?” 

“Ah, Rhodey Bear, you know me. Crazy Lord Stark who never leaves his workshop except to get drunk and party.” Bending, he picked up the soldering rod and put it in its holder. “I’ll be fine.” 

James pursed his lips and gave Anthony a look. “You are far from fine,” he said, holding up his hand to forestall any reply. “But I came to fetch you for court so this conversation will have to wait. There’s a long docket today of petitioners.” 

“Court isn’t until …” Anthony stopped to think about it. “Today? That means Bucky’s due back tomorrow.” 

“Indeed.” James, used to Anthony’s inability to keep the days straight. when he was into a problem to be solved, nodded. “There’s time for a change of clothes if you wish.” 

Brown leather pants, a simple grey linen shirt with only three stains in hard to see places … Anthony grabbed his red vest and slipped it on. “If I show up in court dress, the whole town will be whispering it’s not me.”

“This is true.” James smiled. 

Anthony headed for the door. “Tell me you have some Benden wine waiting and I’ll love you forever.” 

“Always,” James answered. “And I know you do.”

* * *

“Dean Winchester.” Barbara Morse, head of the Burosey Thieves Guild, appeared out of an alleyway and fell into step with him. “Imagine running into you. Thought you’d be back at that little Northern hold with your brother.” 

“Bobbi.” Dean didn’t slow his pace as he wove through the busy street. “Found all the Hydra members in your ranks yet?”

“There are more rats in the castle than in town.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Or so I’ve heard.” 

That was interesting; Barbara’s information must be important or she wouldn’t risk approaching him here. No one was supposed to know that she was working with Stark and Rogers to chase down the remaining rot. 

“What do you want?” Dean kept his tone sharp, annoyance in his tense shoulders. 

As a hunter, he was neither guard nor thief, but somewhere in between. Of course, there was the little problem of that fight on the docks when people saw the Men of Letters try to kill him. They did, actually, but Dean and death had a long-standing arrangement, so he was alive and walking around town. To some, standing against the Men of Letters made him a hero, but for others, those who’d been raised by the lies and manipulation of Alexander Pierce and his cronies, Dean was a villain of the piece. 

“To know what you’re doing hanging around.” Barbara could spar with words with the best of them; the rumor of their meeting and spat would soon be spreading. “We’ve got enough trouble without a Winchester added to the mix.” 

“Darlin’, a Winchester only makes things better, or don’t you remember?” Dean started to smirk, but strong hands grabbed him and held him steady as a bag was pulled over his head. He struggled until a touch on his wrist sent him reeling, and he sagged against his captor. 

“What have been you eating?” A male voice whispered. “You weigh a ton.” 

“Get him inside and stop bitching,” Barbara said from somewhere on his right. “And watch out for the …” 

Dean’s head thumped against something solid. 

“Sorry, mate.” 

The man half-carried him, his bootheels dragging across the floor, then dropped him in a chair. A door closed and the bag was yanked away. Dean blinked as the dark inner room came into focus. 

“Damn, Bobbi, did you have to use a limp charm? Those things take forever to wear off,” he complained. 

“Oh, be a man, would you? It had to look real.” Barbara drew up a chair to the small table. “Too many people have seen me going in and out of the castle; it’s not good for business.” 

“Already have two possible challengers.” The man was shorter than Dean with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard; from his accent, he was clearly Brisanian. “And I’m pretty sure Poindexter’s up to something.” 

“Ben Poindexter?” Dean’s eyes widened. “He’s Bullseye.” 

“Fuck.” Barbara clenched her fists. “I knew he smelled off. Lance, go warn Izzy. I’d rather her take over than let a killer like Bullseye get his foot in the door.” 

Lance Hunter. Dean recognized him now; he was Barbara’s second-in-command and her current lover. A bit of a prick but good to Barbara, according to … Ellen. She needed to be warned if Bullseye was in town.

“Get word to Ellen at the Flying Pig; guy has had a fixation on Jo for a while. They’ll want to take precautions,” Dean added. “Tell her Moose sent the message.”

“Moose?” Lance’s eyes darted to Barbara; she nodded. “I’ll send the message.” 

“Going against type this time?” Dean asked after Lance left. “That’s the guy?” 

“He’s the best second-story man in the business,” Barbara shot back. “Plus, he wouldn’t leave me high and dry like you did in Panene Beach.” 

“Not my fault you didn’t check the tavern for a note.” Dean wiggled his toes as feeling began to return. “I wasn’t letting that werepanther get away; she’d killed seven already.” 

“I know.” Barbara sat back and sighed. “There’s no time for all that now; things are bad. Better than a few weeks ago, but there’s still a lot of work to be done.” 

“What’s so important that you couldn’t send a message?” He could rotate his ankles and stretched his fingers. 

“First, I need to know why you’re here.” She turned serious. “Does it have anything to do with those marks on your arms?” 

“What?” Dean jerked his head and raised an arm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The handprints; I do know your body rather well if you remember.” 

Dean smiled. “Yes, that I haven’t forgotten. But the rest …” 

“Dean. Rumlow was blown to hell when he touched you; I think we’re past pretending those aren’t bonding marks.” 

“There’s no such thing as …” Dean stopped halfway through the thought; what was the use in arguing? “You’re the last person I thought would believe in that sort of thing.”

“My second-in-command turned out to be an evil sorceress, so I’m open to rethinking my previous positions on magic,” Barbara said. “And if you can come back from the dead, well, spiritual connections between two people might be possible.” 

“I didn’t buy it until Sam went and got himself bonded to a gorgeous blonde who can kill you without breaking a sweat,” Dean admitted as he stretched his legs. 

“You know, back when I was running with Clint’s troop and we were together, I sometimes had the strangest feeling as if we were … reliving events that had happened before, that Clint and I were …” She paused, searching for words. “Not in the way he is with Coulson; they could set a whole forest on fire. More like …” 

“An echo of something else? Another time or place?” Dean knew exactly what she was talking about; he got the same feeling when he was around Ellen and Jo. “Like you almost fit, but don’t?” 

“Yes. As if Clint and I were more, once, but not now, not with Philip’s all-consuming claim,” she said. “It’s the same for you and whoever made those handprints; everything else pales in comparison to that bond.” 

“But I don’t even know who it is!” Dean’s frustration boiled over. “How can I be bonded to someone I’ve never met and have a memory of! Damn it, I’ve tried everything, talked to everyone and I’ve found no answers. I even went to Stephen Strange’s house and he didn’t answer the door. Clint and Phil, I can understand; they found each other, went through the rituals, but all I’ve got is some fragments of dreams and a crispy Brock Rumlow. It doesn’t make sense.” 

“Strange has gone world walking; he left right after the battle, sent word to the Guild to expect him to be away for a long while. He also said to keep a weather eye out for portents and descendants, whatever that meant .” She shrugged, ever the realist; Barbara always dealt with the way things were not what they might become. “I thought there was too much to do to worry about an eccentric mystic, but yesterday, a woman showed up at my house saying she needed to speak to one Dean Winchester, that the fate of the heavens hung in the balance. She’s from down near the Karlington coast, claims she’s had a vision. I normally would have dismissed her with all the others -- you know how many people crawl out of the woodwork, wanting to be paid for their insights when things happen -- but Ellen recognized the name.” 

“Fate of the heavens?” Dean scoffed; he could barely keep his own life from going to hell. “Really? Who is she?”

“Pamela Barnes.”

He jerked up and stared at Barbara. “Barnes? The blind seer? Tall brunette, not too much older than you, nice … curves?” 

“You know her.” Barbara sighed. “Intimately, I suppose?” 

“No, but Sam does. I had to sleep with the horses three nights in a row.” Dean grinned. “She worked a hunt with us; has a real knack for predicting where monsters go to ground.” He pushed up. Stood wavering for a few seconds. “Let’s go see what she has to say.” 

“Tomorrow. She said it had to be tomorrow after the evening star rises above the topmost tower of the castle. Something about planets in alignment and portents.”

“Wrong time, right place,” Dean groused. “That’s the story of my life.” 

“Works to my benefit,” Barbara admitted. “Wouldn’t mind if you just happened across Poindexter and made a scene. You’re good at that.” 

“Get him to an inn and I’ll provide you with a barroom brawl. If I remember, I owe you one anyway.” Dean stumbled as he took a step. “Maybe give me a little time to get back in fighting trim though.” 

“Done,” she agreed.

* * *

“... to be loyal to the House of Stark and all its heirs, both now and in the future.” 

Anthony scanned the faces of those taking the oath, the flickering blue of the truth charm casting phantom visages over the people’s features, revealing their thoughts and emotions. Some were wide-eyed, afraid of imagined retribution. Others were relieved, ready to return to their lives. A few were sad, losses still fresh and hurting. A couple were angry, frustration evident in their grimaces. And one in the front row suddenly cried out, mouth contorting in a snarl, charging towards the dais where Anthony sat. 

“Perversion! Magic is the work of the devil! The world needs to be …” 

The spell twisted around the man, tightening until he was held fast; his eyelids droop and sleep overtook him. Two guards carried him out of the room. Most of the true believers chose to stay in their cells; the number attempting to lie their way to freedom grew smaller every day. Anthony was grateful that so many weren’t in that category; when they’d first rounded everyone up after the battle, he’d been shocked at how crowded the dungeon had been. Most were loyal to their Lord, duped by Stane and Pierce into doing their dirty work. 

How easy it had been to convince good people, to twist their way of thinking and mold their doubts and fears. They believed what the Men of Letters taught because they trusted those in power would do right by them. Even as Lords came and went, Kings growing weak and ineffectual, the people didn’t question the lore, the quietly instilled fear of magic. Overcoming decades, nay, centuries of bias was going to take time and a lot of hard work. Sending these people home to their families was a start in the right direction, but Anthony didn’t kid himself; acceptance of the rise of magicians and powerful gifts wasn’t going to happen overnight. 

“Thank you, Lord Stark.” An older man said after they’d been dismissed. “Don’t care what they’re saying, you’re a good man.” 

“Never listen to the naysayers!” Anthony called after him as his stomach twisted into knots. What were they saying? The same old tales of sexual escapades and disinterest and being out-of-touch with the common folk? Or new ones seeded by his enemies that would lay dormant until the time to explode? He should set someone to finding out. Maybe Dean could talk to his hunter friends or Mockingbird tapping her web of underground contacts. Natasha, of course, but that would mean Anthony would have to talk to her about it. Maybe …

“Tony.” A warm hand fell on his shoulder and he started out of his reverie. Steven spread his fingers and gently massaged the tight spot where his neck curved. “That’s the last group; thought we could have dinner in the room, just you and me. Been a long day.” 

He knew; Anthony felt the so-very-Steven warmth and concern slip through the bond. 

“I was going to finish the new armor …” Anthony began but Steven’s surge of disappointment stopped him. “... but Winchester hasn’t deigned to come back yet with my supplies, so a soak in the heated bathing pool would be nice. We really need to install one of those rain showers; can’t have Barton Hall better equipped than Burosey Castle.” 

“Good. I’ll tell Jarvis to send it up in, say, an hour?” When Steven smiled, it filtered into Anthony and lightened the bans constricting his chest. 

“Everything’s going well?” He had to ask; the little ache behind his left eye needed to know. 

“I’d like to be moving faster, but it’s steady progress.” Exhaustion, the good kind that came from hard work, floated through the bond along with a tinge of frustration; Anthony could see the numbers and variables clearly, Steven’s touch grounding him. Putting Steven in charge of sussing out the conspirators was the right decision even if it meant long hours and occasional moments on the edge of danger. “And you? How are you?” 

Steven didn’t dissemble well; that was James and Natasha’s bailiwick. 

“Dandy.” Anthony stood up, dusting offing an imaginary speck on his robe. “The articulated joints are coming along nicely, and the front gate is almost seated; I do think the choice of blue metallic ore for the secondary inner circle was particularly inspired.”

“Tony.” Steven tried again, but Anthony was already in motion, heading for the small door behind the dais that led to the back stairs. Lengthening his stride, Steven kept up with Anthony’s smaller frame. “It helps to talk about what’s troubling you.” 

“I’ve heard that. We’ll try it sometime.” A few castle workers scurried out of their way, bobbing their heads towards Anthony. “Tell Jarvis I’m in the mood for some of the Saurian brandy; have him send up a bottle with dinner, will you?” 

Steven sighed, giving up for the moment. “I will.” 


	2. Chapter #2: And the Man in the Back Said Everyone Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean crosses paths with an old lover and hears some news that's concerning. Tony and Steve have a moment.

  
  


Dean strolled into the portside tavern, slipped into a table by the window and motioned the serving boy over. He dropped his pack on the floor beside him, letting the top flap gape open so nearby patrons could see the rolls of thin metal and set of wrenches inside. Propping his feet on the opposite bench, he ordered an ale and a bowl of stew, just another patron hungry after a day’s work. Odds were someone in the place knew him … dying in plain sight on the docks will do that to a reputation … but that didn’t matter; hunters were a fixture in the city, especially now that the Men of Letters had shown their hand. 

Hunters’ ranks were drawn from city, town, and counties, a broad swath of people whose lives had usually been shaped by tragedies and monsters. Most had little to no formal training, working in loosely formed communities; older, more seasoned veterans provided wisdom and knowledge while others offered locations to gather and share information. Robert Singer had been Dean and Samuel’s mentor, practically raising them after their father disappeared, offering them a home and protection. 

To hunters, the Men of Letters might be their patron, but they were also academics and scholars, the kind of people who stayed in their towers and libraries instead of getting out on the road. Book learning was useful, true, and yet, far too often, the real understanding of creatures came from facing them in their natural habitats. Hunters knew magic was real because they were the ones who ran the risk of stumbling into old spells and charms; the Men of Letters could preach all they liked about the evils of sorcerers and mages from safely behind thick walls. 

Or at least that’s what hunters used to think. Now they knew that the Men of Letters had been secretly hoarding magical items and poisoning the populace’s thoughts in order to gain control. The fact wasn’t a complete surprise to hunters like Dean and Samuel and Robert, but it was a betrayal of the highest order to others. And hunters, once burned, were more than twice shy in trusting again. It was the nature of the profession. 

So anyone who knew Dean Winchester would understand why he was in the city, buying supplies, and meeting with other hunters like Eileen Leahy. 

“Dean.” She sat down opposite him. “Barely arrived in town and I get your note. Color me surprised.” 

As she spoke, her hands moved constantly. Slim and petite, Eileen’s dark hair was neatly braided, cuffs of her shirt pushed up for the most mobility. 

“Ellen said you were coming.” Dean signed as he spoke. “Sorry to hear about your place. How much damage did they do?” 

“Burned half the town.” Her dark eyes sparked with anger. “We managed to create a break by diverting the creek through the square and using a wind charm. Sons of bitches targeted Magrette, the local hedge witch. I suspect they were after her daughter; kid’s only eight and already showing signs of her gift. Every plant she touches grows like crazy. Thank the goddess Magrette was helping with a birthing and had taken Klara with her.” 

Dean’s drink arrived; Eileen ordered one for herself. 

“You got a place in the city?” He asked. “I know they destroyed Ellen’s home during the fight and space is at a premium.” 

She shrugged. “I’ll find somewhere; got enough for a few nights in an inn if I pick the right one. You know how it is.” 

“I do,” Dean agreed. “And I have room. Sam’s not here, so you can have his bed.”

“Maybe. Not sure what my plans are, honestly. So much has happened. Is it true? Pierce went rogue and tried to kill the King?” Eileen asked. “Did you really face down Brock Rumlow all by yourself?” 

“Yeah, Pierce has been lying to everyone. He was working with Tarleton and sending those men to harass the countryside.” Dean took a swig of his ale. “Rumlow’s dead, but I had some help on that front.” 

“Way I hear, you and Rumlow went at it on the docks then you blasted him with powerful magic in the castle bailey.” She grinned. “Won’t lose any tears over that bastard’s demise.” 

“The real story is much less exciting.” Dean took the bowl and spoon from the server. “It was ugly for a while, I won’t lie. But Pierce and Rumlow are both gone, and they tipped their hand so we’re ready for them if they try again.” 

“True,” Eileen agreed. “So, tell me about Sam and this Captain of the Guard he’s fallen for. Ash stopped by Bobby Singer’s place and it’s all he could talk about.” 

There’d been a short span of months when Dean’s brother and Eileen had been more than colleagues; truth be told, Dean had liked the two of them together and seeing Samuel happy. But hunters rarely make good couples and time apart had cooled the relationship until they were left with friendship. Not a bad outcome, in the end; Eileen deserved to be loved the same way Carol loved Sam. 

He told her about Barton Hall and Fraiserton, meeting the Crown Prince of Asgard and the Pirate Remy LeBeau, and fighting a lich. Between stories, he kept an eye on the doorway, letting her know he was expecting trouble; working together, they’d established their own signs for danger and silent directions. Eileen slipped her knife onto the table next to her drink, her eyes flicking around the room. 

Halfway through his second mug, the man he’d been waiting for finally entered; Poindexter walked in with two other men and Lance Hunter trailing behind him. He was of medium height and build, brown hair, brown eyes, as average looking as any man on the street except for the scar in the center of his forehead. Even that distinct blemish was usually covered by a fall of bangs making it easy for Bullseye to pass unnoticed. Obsessed with never missing, Poindexter fancied himself a perfect shot. Having met Clint Barton, Dean was sure Bullseye was kidding himself on that point. Clint really was the best. 

“... needed to protect the members from further incursions,” Poindexter was saying. “She was good enough before, but now we need a new direction, someone with experience in handling the current situation.” 

“And you think that’s you?” Lance demanded, anger in his voice but caution in his step. “Listen, we don’t know jack shit about where you’ve been, who you are, nowhere near enough to trust you.” 

“True,” Poindexter pulled out a chair. “That’s why I want to talk you, to get know the rank and file …” His eyes landed on Dean and, for two heartbeats, he froze, hand clenched on the wooden back. 

Dean tilted his head and held up his mug, tipping it Poindexter’s direction. 

“Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” Crossing the room, Poindexter came to stop next to their table. “Winchester.”

“Ben. Thought you were out west, stilling running from … what was his name again? Oh, right … Francis Castle. Isn’t Burosey his old stomping grounds?” Dean asked. 

“Castle’s not coming back. Fell off a cliff or so I heard.” Poindexter’s grin was sharp and pointed. “I’ve turned over a new leaf, changed my ways. Going legitimate, atone for my past, you know?” 

Dean laughed, a full-throated sound that echoed through the room and turned heads their way. “Oh, yeah, I know exactly what you’re up to. Lots of opportunities in the aftermath of a battle, eh? Worm your way in and take advantage of the chaos. Do you have a specific target or is it just general mayhem and greed you’re after?”

Poindexter’s eyes hardened. “Listen, we can do this one of two ways. You keep your mouth shut, move along your way and I’ll let you live. Or …” 

“Winchester.” Lance joined the conversation. “Thought we made it clear you weren’t welcome in this city.” 

“Hunter,” Dean replied in the same warning tone. “Thought I made it clear I don’t give a fuck what you want.”

“Any connection to the Men of Letters is grounds for dismissal from the Guild,” Lance said. “We’re cleaning house.”

“Really? Then why are you hanging around with Bullseye?” 

Poindexter was fast, but Dean was ready. Before the dagger was fully out of its sheath, Dean knocked it out of his hand and launched himself out of his chair. The punch landed squarely on Poindexter’s nose and the satisfying crack wring a cry of pain from him. 

“Fucking cunt! I’ll fucking kill you once and for all.” Poindexter managed to grab Dean’s elbow and tried to spin him around; with a hand, Dean used the tip of his sword’s sheath to catch a chair and bring it closer. Bending backward, he caught the spindles and hefted the seat, smacking it into Poindexter’s arm to free himself then rounded on the man, bringing it down on his head with all the momentum he could muster. 

“Guess we’re going with option three,’ Dean said as Bullseye crumbled and went down like a sack of flour. 

Glancing around, Dean saw Lance standing over one of the other men and Eileen cleaning her dagger the groaning other one’s sleeve. All the patrons had retreated to a safe distance and watched the whole thing. 

“He’s Bullseye?” Lance asked, kicking the prone form. “Well, damn. I knew I didn’t like him. Guess we owe you one.” 

“Tell Mockingbird to put it on my tab.” Dean dropped some coins on the table, more than enough to cover his bill and then some. “Last thing this city needs are assholes like him weaseling their way in.” 

Eileen stepped over the bodies as she followed Dean to the door. “The offer of a place to stay still open?” she asked. 

“Right this way,” Dean replied with a smile. 

* * *

Tony sipped the dark red wine as he leaned back in the bathing pool, hot water soaking away the aches of the day. Too long hunched over, his shoulders were tight; straining to see in poor light, a throb centered behind his eyes. Still recovering from his stab wound, twisting right or left sent twinges up his spine. He needed to face the fact that he was getting older and his body wasn’t healing as fast as it used to. 

The warmth soothed his jumbled emotions as well. The coarse sandpaper of feelings was wearing away with each passing moment. He’d never admit it but Virginia was right; taking time to savor life was a good tonic for his prickly attitude. The problems would be there tomorrow and, sometimes, relaxing helped him figure out the answers faster. If he closed his eyes, numbers and variables danced, rearranging themselves into different possibilities. 

He pictured the joint he’d been working on, imagined it fitting into the spaulder and the spaulder attached to the top edge of the breastplate, how the two would move in tandem with the rise and fall of dragon’s wings. Slipping further into the water, he spun and rotated the parts, added in wind speed and temperature, and cycled through configurations

“Jarvis sent this up; said dinner would be a bit longer,” Steven said. “He always knows when I don’t eat nuncheon.” 

Tony blinked and focused, pulling himself back to the present; a platter of cheese, bread, and fruit was placed on the low table next to the bottle of wine. 

“That’s his magic, a sixth sense when someone’s hungry.” Tony picked a crumbly square of white cheese and dipped in honey before popping it in his mouth. “He makes the perfect food appear at the right moment.” 

Sitting on the bench, Steven pulled off one boot then the other. They’d decided he needed to wear Stark colors, not a guard’s uniform, so they settled on a regular shirt and pants, a leather jerkin and chainmail hauberk. With the heraldry on the sleeve, he was official but separate. He’d already taken off the mail and jerkin, but had on far too many clothes for Tony’s taste.

“A good skill for a majordomo to have.” Steve took a shiny apple and bit into it. “There was never enough to eat when I was a kid, and after the spell, I never seemed to be full.” 

Another piece of cheese -- soft with a swipe of apricot preserves -- and Tony chased it with a sip of wine. “Mother always had court chefs; it was a source of pride. Little squares and strange sauces … give me a bowl of Dax’s gumbo any day. I tried to bribe him to cook here, but he said no, damn it. Don’t know how Barton does it; he scooped up all the best. Thanes, husband, staff ...”

Pulling his shirt over his head, Steven hung it on a peg. “All the best?”

“You’re right; Pepper’s amazing. Don’t know why she puts up with me.” Tony popped a grape in his mouth and chewed. “And Rhodey. Jarvis. Happy.” 

He’d never get used to this, the slide of pants, the expanse of skin revealed. That he was privy to Steven Grant Rogers at his most vulnerable … and sexiest … still hadn’t completely sunk in. He could look his fill, watch the flex of muscles, the curve of cheeks, and the bend of joints. Long legs, slim hips, narrow waist, and broad, broad shoulders. Golden fall of hair over his forehead and thatch of darker between his legs. Eyes so blue the sky gets jealous. Smile so bright the sun turns away. 

Not perfect; there’s a quirk at the edge of one lip, a little scar by his left earlobe, a longer one across his right nipple. And yet, when Anthony sees the numbers, the equation that is Steven, one sequence that’s supposed to be transcendent, all but a few variables that ground him, parenthetical notations where James and Natasha and Anthony nestle. It hits him like a high amplitude wave, the feeling of love, washing over and in and out, echoes returning through the bond, folding back upon themselves. 

Climbing in the tub, Steven sank onto the tile bench next to Anthony, sighed then took another bite of his apple. A dribble of juice ran down his chin and he wiped it away with his fingers. Anthony swallowed another mouthful of wine and put the glass down. 

“So, how was your day?” Anthony asked as he slathered some butter on dark rye bread and offered it to Steven. “Mine was great, thanks for asking. The hinges are set on the left side of the new gate; Dean’s design’s working. I tinkered with armor for dragon back.” 

Despite his glance that said he knew there was more to discuss, Steven accepted the redirection of conversation. “I saw the gate coming in; they were lifting it up and twisting the angles. No one’s going to have anything like it.” 

“I keep telling him to sell a simplified version of the design, but he’s too busy wandering the city. I sent him out this morning to get filament wire and he’s still not back,” Anthony said. 

“I asked him to check a few things for me; his connections with the hunters’ community and thieves guild open doors for him” After Steven took a bite of the bread, he ran his tongue along his lips to lick up the butter. “They’re more likely to talk to people they know.” 

“Thus why neither Rhodey nor Happy can do it,” Anthony agreed. “You’ll batter them into submission with your goodness and charm eventually.” 

“Maybe.” Steven went silent for a moment, chewing another bite and then eating a sliver of cheese before he continued. “There was a woman today; she broke into her brother’s home and tried to kill her niece and nephew. Said they were abominations and that we shouldn’t suffer those possessed by magic to live.” He closed his eyes and laid his head back. “Her own kin, Tony, kids no older than six. Her brother had to use his sword to stop her; even after he tied her up, she was still screaming about demons and freeing them. I don’t understand that kind of madness when you look in the face of such innocence and want them dead.” 

Anthony poured a second glass for Steven and pressed it into his hand. “There are those who are easily swayed, their minds soft and malleable like thin copper wire. Impress upon them and they never question, just follow the path they’re put on until a new force changes them. We might be able to reach them with enough effort … and it’s worth it to try ... but bend and reshape them too much and they break.”

Steven cracked one eyelid then opened his mouth and took the grape Anthony offered. 

“Others are hardened, tempered into unyielding sheets, unable to change; they’d rather die than accept the way they see the world is wrong. Those, at best, you’ve got to let go. At worst, we stop them.” 

Another bite of cheese layered with quince paste and a dollop of honey, and Steven sucked in the tips of Anthony’s fingers as he took the bite. 

“The two kids. They’re alive with at least one parent who cares enough to fight his own sibling for them. That’s what you need to remember.” 

Catching Anthony’s hand, Steven pulled him closer until he straddled Steven’s lap, his face looking down on Steven’s. 

“You are a realist, Anthony Stark, and that’s why I need you. To remind me when I lose sight of the good in face of the bad.” 

He kissed him, then, all honeyed lips and the wine-flavored tongue, wrapping his big hands around Anthony’s neck and tugging him down. When he was done, he didn’t let him go, fitting him flush against him and feeding him bites and sips as they lay in the water, bodies floating together. Sweet kisses and slow brushes of fingers drove any lingering doubt out, the bond filling all the spaces of the equation with surety and calm. Soon, the touches grew surer, building into something longer, more complex; the niggle of awareness, James first, then Natasha, wrapping them in phantom arms and distant warmth. Rubbing and stroking, rolls of hips, and gasps of pleasure. Arching backs, lifting up, quiet cries as they came, spilling over and into a sated bliss. 

“Suppose anyone would notice if we went to bed now?” Anthony’s head rested on Steven’s chest; he could hear the steady beat of his heart. “Feel like I could sleep until morning.” 

“I have a meeting with Rhodes and Hogan.” Steven didn’t stir despite his words. “It’s important to share knowledge, present a united front.” 

“Ummmm, I suppose so.” He reached for the last piece of cheese. “ Have them come here. I don’t feel like getting dressed and they won’t care if I’m in my dressing gown.” 

“That’s a good idea.” Steven snatched the piece and ate it. “After dinner, though. I’m still hungry.” 

* * *

“Dean.” Eileen tugged at Dean’s sleeve as they neared the gate and switched to signing. “This is the castle.” she signed. 

“I know,” Dean replied. 

“Hey, Winchester!” One of the guards called. “Got one side working.” 

“I thought it was going in tomorrow?” He paused to run a hand over the gate’s inner edge “Did they have to force the pins much?” 

“A few hard whacks, especially on the last one, but no more than usual. Can’t wait to see it finished.” 

Eileen spread her hands in askance. 

“New gates,” he explained. 

“He designed ‘em,” the guard injected. “We’ve got two inventors in the castle now.” 

Eileen’s eyes widened. 

“I just tinker,” Dean said, ducking his head and continuing forward at a pace that made Eileen scramble to follow. The crossed the yard, Dean steadfastly not looking towards the spot where Rumlow attacked him, and he stepped over the scorch marks on the stairs into the hall. 

“Dean.” Virginia Potts stopped him on the second-floor landing; she was coming out of the east wing. “I hope you found what you were looking for; he’s been asking all afternoon.” 

“Cost a pretty penny, but I’ve got it.” He patted his bag. “Got sidetracked; I need to tell Rogers about it.”

“They’re dining in their room.” Virginia’s eyes flickered to Eileen. “Has your guest eaten? We’re still serving second meal.” 

“Eileen’s going to use Sam’s bed; she lost her home in a Hydra raid, down in Simon Williams’ holding,” Dean said, signing for Eileens’ benefit. 

“I’m so sorry.” Virginia signed flawlessly. “I’ll send someone up with food. Perhaps a bath as well?”

“Yes, please,” Eileen replied. 

“Of course. We have to help each other during these times. Tell Dean if you need anything,” she signed.

“Thanks, Pepper. I’ll head up as soon as I drop her off.” 

It took a flight of stairs before Eileen spoke. “Pepper? That was Pepper Potts? Lord Stark’s Chatelaine?”

“Yes,” Dean admitted. “She’s a good woman.” 

“I want the whole story at some point, Winchester,” she demanded. “But right now a bath sounds heavenly.” 

Dean dropped her off in the rooms; she wandered through the sitting area, stared at the view from the window, and practically squealed with delight at the sight of the large four-poster bed. Before he left, a maid arrived with a ladened platter of food and a basket brimming with soap, salts, and towels. He snagged a sour cherry tartlet before he made his way up to Anthony’s rooms and knocked on the door. 

“The prodigal son returns!” Anthony said as Dean entered. Sprawled on a chaise lounge, Anthony wore a silk dressing gown and had a glass of whiskey. A table was next to him covered with the remains of his supper. “Shall we celebrate?”

Dean dropped the bag of materials on the end of the chair and took a napkin to wipe the sticky residue of his sweet from his fingers. “I wouldn’t say no to some of what you’re drinking. Been a hell of a day.” 

“Something happened?” Steven came in from the bedroom. He, at least, was dressed, although his hair was mussed and a tiny love bite on the curve of his neck. “You are well?” 

“I’m good.” Dean took the glass Anthony passed over. “Ran into an assassin who goes by the name of Bullseye; he was trying to get a foothold in the thieves guild. Made sure everyone knew what his game was so he’ll have to move along.” 

Steven nodded. “There’ll be more of them, opportunists. Some will be Hydra, others just out for themselves. Nature abhors a vacuum; with Donaldson and Pierce gone, the battle’s on for their power. Arrested two so-called businessmen who wanted to use the drovers union to funnel their illegal profits.” 

“Even the assassins league refused Bullseye entrance; he wouldn’t agree to their code. Unhinged is the word Ellen uses to describe him,” Dean said. “Also have news from Simon Williams’ holding; Hydra gangs are going for a scorched earth policy, burning out towns to sew chaos. He’s stationed men in the larger ones, but they can’t fight a flaming arrow or thrown jar. The most they can do is save the people; my contact says in some places, Hydra’s killing them if they try to leave the building, forcing them to stay inside and burn.” 

Anthony cursed. “How does that help them? Murder of innocents doesn’t win them converts in their battle against magic; it reveals how twisted they are.” 

“Crossed purposes.” Steven sat down on the end of the chaise; Anthony lifted his legs to make room then promptly his feet in Steven’s lap. “Pierce and the Men of Letters are the fanatics; Tarleton wants land and power.”

“And the Sorcerer wants us all dead.” Dean had thought about it in the middle of the night when he lay awake, disjointed dreams of blue eyes and wings keeping him from sleeping. “Because we’re destined to stop him. It’s one of those conundrums, a chicken and an egg question. If we weren’t who we are, would he still want to destroy the world? And if he didn’t want to destroy the world, would we be who we are?” 

“Why, Winchester, that’s very philosophical,” Anthony said. “One of these days, when we have time to invest in existential questions, we should drink wine and contemplate the meaning of life.” 

“I’m serious, Tony,” Dean shot back. “We can keep treating the symptoms or we can try and figure out what’s causing the illness. Whatever the Sorcerer is … mechanical or lich or man … we’re playing catch up, dealing with each crisis as it comes. We need to understand the roles we’re supposed to play; I don’t buy that we’re destined to be one thing or the other. We make our own fates.”

“I agree,” Steven said. “We choose and that’s what makes us so dangerous to him. We’re unpredictable, fallible …”

“Human.” Anthony nodded. “No matter what we were once, this is what we are now. And we’re going to kick his ass.” 

“Amen, Dean agreed. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Benjamin Poindexter is the name of the assassin Bullseye in some of the comic version and the Netflix MCU series. He's commonly associated with Daredevil and Hawkeye. 
> 
> Eileen Leahy is a fellow hunter from Supernatural; she's canonically deaf
> 
> Lance Hunter is from Agents of SHIELD; he's Bobbi Morse's boyfriend and partner on the show. Bobbi is Mockingbird, Clint's ex-wife in the comics and fellow founder of the West Coast Avengers. Here I've made her both Clint and Dean's ex for the added awkwardness. In "Under the Brave Black Flag," Bobbi helps during the battle. 
> 
> For those of you not familiar with Supernatural, for many seasons, Dean had hand-shaped scars on his biceps/upper arms where a certain angel gripped him tight and raised him from hell ...


	3. Chapter #3: Rise Up, Gather 'Round

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthony has an idea and drags Dean along. Nothing out of the ordinary ... until they stumble into a small shop and start bargaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've changed the chapters from 4 to 5; I've got chapter 4 almost done and still have some ends to tie up, so you're getting an extra one! 
> 
> A reminder: Dean Winchester is a character from the television show Supernatural; I'm incorporating elements from that show with the MCU in these stories.

“Rise and shine!” 

Dean struggled up from a deep sleep, blinking as he tried to wake. 

“Come on, Winchester! Sun’s out and the day’s a-wasting. We’ve got places to go, people to impress.” 

Rolling over, he groaned and batted at the hand that grabbed the covers. Cool air replaced the warm cocoon of blankets. 

“What the fuck, Stark?” he mumbled. “Leave me alone.”

“No can do, darling. We have an appointment.” Anthony’s face swam into focus. “Put some pants on that delicious ass and let’s get going.” 

“What are you talking about?” Dean squinted then wiped the sleep from his eyes. “It’s too early for this shit.” 

“Yeah, well, Steve gets up at the crack of dawn so I did too and I’ve had the most amazing idea and we’re going to make it happen but I need you to go with me because you know more about the type of gears and pistons I’m looking for.” Anthony didn’t slow down as he sat on the bed, bouncing up and down. 

“Hells bells.” Dean pushed up and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, not bothered by Anthony’s presence. “If this is for another type of armor, I swear to the gods, Tony …” 

“Nope. Had a dream about that miniature clockwork music box that mom had, the big one in the grand foyer upstairs by the ballroom. Been thinking about Bucky’s arm and a replacement for the one he’s got now. I was coming at it from the wrong angle; it’s not the mechanics, it’s the music!”

Dean grabbed a shirt as he stood and yanked it over his head. Experience had taught him the only way to deal with Anthony in one of these moods was to go along with him. Besides, Dean was just as interested in James Barnes’ arm as Anthony was. The current one was a marvel of engineering. “Music? You’re not making sense.” 

“That’s exactly it! The arm isn’t a thing, it’s part of him. We haven’t been taking magic into account. Barton sees magic as music, right? Well, Bucky’s arm is like that.” Anthony jumped up and handed Dean the pants he’d left pooled on the floor. “It was the articulated joints for the armor that made me realize it. I can build a dozen arms but they’re lifeless metal without the music.” 

“Okay, I see that, but …” He buttoned his pants and started searching for his boots “... it’s the sorcerer’s magic that makes it work now. Wouldn’t it be better …”

“... if it were keyed to Bucky? Exactly.” Anthony passed over Dean’s vest. “Then he’d be in control of the thing and wouldn’t have to worry about it being taken over by anyone else …” 

“...except through bond. You, Steve, Natasha, your gifts are blended now.” Dean buckled on his sword belt and caught sight of his boots through the open door in the sitting room. “But that would … “

“... complicate the matter.” Anthony followed him out of the bedroom. “The bond’s not all-encompassing, at least I don’t think it is. I’ve been able to shut things off from the others and I’m pretty sure they do the same. But if we limit it to Bucky’s …” 

“Dean?” Eileen signed, standing in her nightgown, hair a tumble on her shoulders. “Everything alright?” 

“Oh.” Anthony punched Dean’s shoulder. “That’s why you wouldn’t stick around last night, eh?” 

“No, Tony, that was because you were literally sitting in Steve’s lap.” Dean sat down and slid his foot into a boot, keeping his face tilted up so Eileen could read his lips. “This is my friend, Eileen Leahy, the one whose village was burned out.” 

“Good morning.” Anthony signed as he gave a bow. “And welcome to Castle Stark. Any need you have, don’t hesitate to ask. My home is your home.” 

“Your home …” Eileen's eyes widened, a blush spreading on her pale cheeks and her hands flew as she continued. “You’re Lord Stark. Anthony Stark. Oh, my stars, Dean. Why didn’t you warn me?” 

“Sorry,” Dean answered. “Tony does what he wants including barging in early in the morning to drag me on some new project he dreamed up.” 

“You’ll have to excuse him. He’s surly when he doesn’t get enough beauty sleep,” Anthony signed. “But I do need his expertise for the day.” 

“That’s fine. I have plans myself. I’ll just …” she gestured vaguely into the room behind her. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Well, that was awkward,” Anthony said as she closed the door. “But I like her.” 

Dean sighed. “It’s a wonder I have any friends.” 

On the second landing of the back stairs, Virginia waited; she handed Dean a steaming mug of coffee and a sausage roll then dragged Anthony off for a chat, long enough for Dean to wolf down the pastry and get a jolt of caffeine. They exited the castle on a side street, the two guards nodding to their Lord as he wandered out in simple clothes and workman’s cap, not an unusual occurrence. Dean opted to turn up his collar and hunker down into his oversize green jacket; it was noticeably cooler than yesterday, a sure sign that fall was approaching. 

They cut through the fancy houses with walls and gates and wide clean streets, down a side thoroughfare with merchants’ homes and trade stores with big glass windows, and into college buildings, the healer’s house, and the courts of law. Anthony didn’t swing through the market square, turning instead towards the more modest neighborhoods, the ones where bakers and candlestick makers lived above smaller shops. He ducked into a narrower alley and cut over into a rougher part of town, where pawnbrokers took items in trade and sold them for less than they were worth. Finally, they arrived at the metalsmiths area, their forges wafting heat and anvils ringing as hammers beat against them. 

Stop after stop, Anthony looked for cogs and gears and slim pieces, always searching for quality workmanship before he’d pick it up. Then he’d hold it close, rub his fingers on the finish, close his eyes and raise it to his ear as if he was waiting for the piece to whisper its secrets. He’d put it down with a sigh and move on to the next place. To Dean’s eye, there were plenty of well-crafted options; he didn’t understand what Anthony was after, so he kept his opinions to himself. After a couple of hours, the sun slipping from overhead and starting its downward journey for the day, Dean’s stomach growled and he caught Anthony’s elbow, directing them around a corner to a little stand where a woman was deep-frying spicy dumplings. At the first whiff of the delicious smell, Anthony quit complaining; between them, they finished off three large orders, dipping the triangular squares into a sweet sauce and licking their fingers. Through the window of a tiny tavern, they ordered a mug of ale, polishing it off under the eaves as a fine misty rain started to fall. Then it was back to the hunt. 

The whole while, Dean fretted about the night’s meeting with Pamela Barnes. Waiting had never been his long suit, so following Anthony around gave him something to do with the time. Watching Stark’s back was important; Dean checked out the other patrons, kept an eye on those who passed by on the street. While few would imagine the scruffy-looking man who needed a shave was Lord of the holding, there were enough who knew his face that word could easily spread. Especially now, with all the enemies still unaccounted for, Anthony needed someone at his back. That he trusted Dean … and being here meant that Rhodes and Rogers and Potts also trusted him… well, that wasn’t something Dean had ever expected. He was generally the man who came and went, didn’t make connections, never stuck around. Yet here he was, part of Stark’s inner circle. 

“They’re just not right,” Anthony complained. “They’re too …”

Dean put down the spanner he was looking at. 

“... warm.” Anthony shook his head. “Sterile. Fresh from the fire. That’s not him.” 

“These are all newly made,” Dean said. “They’re virtually the same.” 

“Yes! Exactly.” Anthony’s eyes widened. “He’s got mileage, a story. Been cooled and reformed. That’s it. We’re in the wrong place.” 

He smacked Dean on the shoulder and headed out, feet eating up distance as he moved with renewed purpose. They turned, then turned again until they were on Salvage Street, a tiny wandering path between buildings that crooked and curved. The establishments here were a step above junk shops with bins upon bins and piles of old metal, rusted and covered with patina. Anthony slipped on gloves before he started rummaging at the first store; it didn’t take long before he found a handful of slim rods, no longer than the span of his wrist to the tip of his middle finger, holes in each end. At the third place, he crowed with delight when he found delicate cogs, a whole box, each with fine filigree spokes inside. Valves so small Dean could pool them in his palm came from the bottom of a bin. Pins so rusty they left orange streaks on basket sides. With each find, Anthony grew more excited, plucking beautifully proportioned and designed pieces from the debris. 

“Keep an eye out for wheels about yea big.” Anthony made a circle with his thumb and finger. “Gold’s best but I can work with silver.” 

“Might not find it today,” Dean said, eyeing the clouds that were scuttling across the sky to gauge the time. “We’re past second guard change.” 

“There’s still time,” Anthony said. “We’ll go up this street, see what there is, and be headed in the right direction for home.” 

An archway between buildings, it was barely wider than Dean’s shoulders; the light dimmed and shadows continued to lengthen even after they emerged onto a pathway that wandered between buildings. Many of the doors were for tenements above or back entrances. Only a few were in trade; Dean saw an herbalist and a sign for tarot readings. One had nothing written on the door, but the necklaces in the window were all familiar protection charms. 

“Here we go,” Anthony said. Standing where two alleys crossed, he opened the door to a shop on the corner. The name Macleod’s was painted on the window. “Last stop, I promise.” 

The itch started at the back of his neck as soon as Dean stepped over the threshold. Only two aisles inside, marked bins and organized piles covered every surface, a strange assortment of items of all sizes. Anthony made it to the second cubbyhole before he gave a little cry of delight; inside was a plethora of timekeepers, none in working condition, but many almost whole. Dean left him to dig for what he needed, wandering the other side. 

A scuff of shoes from the back room heralded the arrival of the proprietor and the itch spread down his spine as the man appeared. Dark hair, black shirt, and vest, black pants, shorter than Anthony … the man’s brown eyes skated over Anthony and landed squarely on Dean. With a jolt of heat, the handprints on his biceps flared to life. 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I help you with?” The man smiled, friendly, and yet, Dean’s palms itched to be holding his weapon. 

“These are great,” Anthony said, still looking inside the timepiece bin.

“Just looking,” Dean said at the exact same time. 

The man tilted his head Dean’s way. “I see. A skeptic and a buyer.”

“I definitely want some of these.” Anthony ignored the byplay, caught up in the stack of timepieces he was building. “Do you have anything else this size with mechanisms still intact? Especially drums and springs?” 

“Ah, if it’s the parts you’re after, these might interest you.” He skirted the counter and opened some drawers in a cupboard on the far wall. “Springs, wheels, cogs, screws … they’re separated by size as well, the smaller ones on the top.” Then he went to the middle table and brought up two caskets and opened the lids. “Or if you want the item itself, these are the small clockworks I have at the moment.”

“Yes.” Anthony was drawn to what looked like a little wagon with metal wheels and a stem sticking out the back. “Anything from before the great war era?” 

“How old do you need? I have a few pieces in the back that might fit the bill,” the man asked. 

“I’ll know it when I see it,” Anthony replied. “Bring ‘em out.” 

As the man bustled into the next room, Dean clenched his fists until the pain of the marks finally faded, willing it away. The way the man moved, the slight accent in his voice, the glint of humor in his eyes -- Dean instinctively went on alert, surveying the shop for possible dangers. Maybe an old talisman or magical item was buried in one of the bins; it wouldn’t be the first time and certainly not the last. So many remnants of a past world, one the Men of Letters taught never existed. 

“Jackpot.” Anthony had pulled out one of the drawers and pulled out a handful of tiny delicate wheels of all shapes and metals. “This is exactly what I need.” 

“I don’t like it,” Dean whispered. “Something’s off. I think we should …”

“And here we are.” The man carried a wooden box and two smaller parcels wrapped in soft wool. “Youngest to oldest, shall we? Let’s start with this one.” He drew a worn velvet-covered board from under the counter, laid the medium-sized parcel on it, slipped on a pair of thin gloves, then folded back the fabric. The round object might once have been brass, but now was covered in green oxidation, fine lines like a spider’s web. What had been an attached cover was loosely positioned on top of the larger bottom, spring that opened and closed it long gone. The needle was missing but Dean could make out the letter N and E on the concave face of the bottom. 

“A compass?” Dean leaned closer then asked, “Doesn’t look that old.” 

“All these pieces have been tested by alchemists; I have the documentation, of course. This predates the war by a good fifty years. See the way the inside of the cover has a different patine pattern? Vellum, they think, cut to fit; as it degraded, it would change the chemical structure.” The man used tiny tweezers to turn it over. “A soldier’s compass, a gift from a parent or grandparent, with a picture inside, probably; it was found in the north along with some other pieces that soldiers would have carried.” 

“We’ll take it.” Anthony’s words were clipped and short. Dean shot him a sideways glance, took in the set of his jaw. Gone was the lighthearted excitement of before, replaced with a seriousness Dean rarely saw. “Let’s see the next one.” 

“A man of decision. Excellent.” Wrapping up the compass, the man set it aside and opened the box, folding back the flaps. “Now, the housing on this one has been replaced and mended, but it’s what’s inside that’s the draw.” A circular metal framework emerged; inside, a triangle connected to the curves of the outer rim. Globs of solder clung to places on the metal supports, some of the slender pieces clearly added later. Half a thumb length in-depth, when the proprietor flipped it over and dropped it in Anthony’s hand, it filled his palm and covered most of his fingers. “Wouldn’t be worth much if it wasn’t for this inner ring.” He tapped the tips of the tweezer on a spot on the outer circle; part of the metal had broken away, revealing a slim band of silvery metal, as clean as if it had been just polished, nestled inside. “Took it to the top metallurgist at the university; he’d never seen anything like it. Every test says the housing is at least pre-war, but this ring … they had no idea. It’s neither silver nor pewter or steel. Even had the Men of Letters check it out; it has no magical residue, so it’s …” 

Dean stopped listening as Anthony began to tremble. Glazed eyes, short breaths, color draining from his cheeks -- Anthony stared at the circle. “Beta decay of Pd-107,” he mumbled. “Rh-103 and Ag-107.”

“Tony.” Dean tugged at his arm. “Are you …” 

Anthony dropped the piece on the velvet board, jumping back as if scalded, his whole body shaking, bumping into the table and knocking over the stack of timepieces. 

“Hey, he’ll put it back …” Dean said. 

“No.” Anthony drew in a long breath. “No. It’s good. It’s more than good. Just … surprised me, that’s all. I want it. The drawers, the watches … all of it.” 

“All of it?” The proprietor’s eyebrows shot up. “Good sir, you understand …” 

With a wave of his hand, Anthony cut him off. “Yes, yes, I know.” 

Surprise shifted to calculation. “You haven’t heard any prices yet. This piece alone is a king’s ransom.”

“I’m sure it’s worth it.” Anthony brushed himself off. “And I can afford it.” 

“Tony, that’s not how you negotiate,” Dean warned. “I don’t think …” 

“Then, by all means, let’s make a deal,” the proprietor said. “If you’re sure you’re willing to pay the price.”

“Oh, no.” Anthony raised a hand. “I’m not that gullible, mister my-shop’s-at-the-crossroads. This is my city and I know all about deals in back alleys, so that’s a big no. What I will do is make a fair offer for the goods in question and ONLY the goods in question. Clean and clear, no addendums, et al, or strings.” 

“I’m just a humble salvage man,” he started to argue, but this time Dean cut him off. 

“And I’m a haberdasher on a holiday. Talk price or we walk.” 

“No need to be rude. Let me add things up and see what …” 

“20,000.” Anthony tossed the number out. 

“20,000 silver?” He began repacking the metal circle. “This one alone is worth …” 

“Gold. Delivered before six bells.” Anthony declared; he dropped a pouch on the counter, coins clinking as it fell. “Here’s a down payment; we take these with us now; I’ll send someone for the rest.” 

The man started to laugh then paused, picked up the pouch, and looked at the amount inside. “You’re serious.” 

“Limited time offer, take it or leave it. Gold for goods. No souls involved,” Anthony said. 

“I’ll tie them with a bow.” He slid the box over as Anthony pocketed the compass. “And may I say it’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Lord Stark.” He followed them to the door, holding it open as they exited. As Dean stepped out onto the street, the man slipped something in his pocket. “We’re even now,” he murmured, back turned to Anthony. “Don’t say I never gave you anything, Winchester.” 

“What the …” 

The door shut and the man disappeared from view. 

“Hey! Macleod or whatever your name is!” 

Dean tried the knob but it was locked. 

“We should get back,” Anthony said as fat drops of water began to fall. “Whatever it is, you can come back.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean agreed as he flipped his hood up. He glanced back and saw only darkened windows and empty streets as the sky opened up. “Damn it.” 

They were soaked before they made two turns; as the streets grew wider, they tried to keep under the eaves, but the wind kicked up and drove the rain at an angle. Heads down, they gave up and took to the middle, splashing through puddles and powering on. By the time they came to the Castle, Dean looked like a beleaguered rat, water working its way under his hood and down his neck. 

“I was beginning to worry,” Virginia said when she saw them in the hallway. “Steven’s been looking for you, Tony, and I need a yes or no about relief efforts.” 

“Tell Steve I’ll be in my workshop after I change,” Anthony replied. “And I need Jarvis to arrange payment for some items; have him come up.” 

“You found what you were looking for?” she asked. 

“Yes, and much, much more.” Anthony clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We’ve got a story to tell, don’t we Winchester?” 

“If, by story, you mean yet another outrageous thing you’ve done, then, yeah,” Dean agreed. 

“Later will suffice.” Virginia eyed the growing puddle of water on the stone floor. “Get out of those wet things; we don’t want either of you getting sick. I’ll make sure the fires are lit in your rooms.” 

Dean didn’t bother to stop Anthony as he walked off with Virginia, talking about wheels and filigree and old metal; as much as the afternoon’s experience had unnerved him, he wanted time to think about and examine the wrapped parcel in his pocket. The entire way up the stairs, Dean turned every detail over in his mind, from the shop’s location to the whispered words. 

“Eileen?” Dean stuck his head into the open door of the other bedroom; it was empty, Eileen’s pack on the chair, and her hairbrush on the dresser. 

Stripping off his soaked jacket, he hung it over a hard-backed chair. His vest next then he balanced on one foot, hand on the wall, unlaced a boot, and pried it off with the metal beetle on the hearth. As the second one came off, he stepped carefully to avoid the puddles then started peeling off his leather pants. Soon he was down to his underwear and beelined into his room for dry clothes; as he drew on a shirt, he heard the call of the chambermaid come to light the fire. After the blaze was started, she left an ewer of hot water and a pot of steaming tea with a plate of biscuits; only then did he take the parcel out and lay it on the table. 

Even through the woolen cloth, he could feel the tingle in his fingers. Gingerly, he unwrapped it until the slim sworls and lines were revealed, dark and pitted metal curled into letters. No longer than his thumb, both ends were broken, parts clearly missing. He recognized the longest letter first, familiar from the scripting of the oldest manuscripts at Bobby’s. 

“R … o … l … e … t,” He puzzled out loud, the last letter with only half a crossbar. All the while, a buzz vibrated at the base of his spine. “Rolet?” 

Slowly, he extended his pointer finger and reached out; the closer he came, the louder the whooshing heartbeat sounded in his ear. 

_ Dun dun dun. Dun dun da dun. Dun dun dun. Dun dun. _

The lightest brush on the curve of the L, barely any contact between skin and metal and …

_ Pain. Slice of knife. Rivulet of blood. Screaming. Broken bones. Tortured breaths. Yellow eyes staring. Evil laughter in his ears. Burning. _

He jerked away, breathed in to stop the trembling, then ran his finger along the letters with more purpose, determined to see what happened. 

_ “Dad’s on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a few days.” _

_ Fire on the ceiling, blonde hair hanging down, smoke pouring out of the house.  _

_ “Dean!”  _

_ Sam stumbling into his arms, slouching to the ground, light going out of his eyes _

_ “Me, I think the world’s gonna end bloody.” _

_ Black pupils, blood splatter, white mounds of tiny grains, red symbols on the floor. _

_ “This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.” _

_ Blue eyes, black hair, crooked smile. Feathers brushing Dean’s back, wings curled around him. _

_ “Even for you this is a whole new mountain of stupid,”  _

_ Sam said, a cruel smile on his face. _

_ Swollen face, agonizing pain, fuzzy vision as Sam tumbled into the gaping hole … _

“Fuck me.” 

Dean came to his senses, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Tears clouded his eyes; he gingerly touched his temple, the phantom ache lingering. He pushed up; the bit of metal was still on the table, deceptively small and unassuming. And, yet, Dean could feel the thrum of … not magic, no this was older, a different kind of power, one that tugged on the tethered handprints on his arms, a connection to another soul, another place, another … something. 

He shook off the confusion; there was a woman who might have some answers and he was going to see what she had to say about all of this. Then he was going back to Macleod’s and ask the man what the hell he meant when he said they were even. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And ... scene!
> 
> Fuck me, but this chapter and the next were so much fun to write!!!
> 
> The pieces Tony takes with him from the shop will be explained further in the next chapter ... some Tony anguish on the way. 
> 
> Hmmm, Macleod. As in, mayhap, Fergus Macleod, dead Scotsman who sold his soul, took on another name and became something else entirely ... I grinned maniacally as I held back on him calling Dean "squirrel" at least once. And I really loved adding Tony being completely onto the game ...
> 
> But if he's in this world, why isn't that other Supernatural character? Hold on to your seats, gang. Some explanation is coming.
> 
> The voices and images at the end are from Supernatural, FYI. 
> 
> And the piece of metal ... yeah, taking a lot of liberties that something like that would survive, but, hey, magic and it's my world, so ...


	4. Chapter #4: A Man with a Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony examines the new artifacts and gets a shock. Dean makes his meeting only to run into an old foe ... and maybe someone else.

“Wait until you see this!” Anthony called as Steven entered the workshop; he’d headed straight there with his new acquisitions, too excited to change out of his wet clothes. He didn’t need to send the page; Steven had immediately picked up on Anthony’s mood and decided to head his way. “Come over here, I need you to do something for me.” 

“Are these the things making you so happy?” Steven stepped up behind Anthony and peered over his shoulder at the box and swaddle of cloth. “You’re practically vibrating out of your skin.” 

“Not going to spoil it,” Anthony said, sliding the compass bundle to the side. “I want an unbiased reaction. Open.” 

Steven’s mouth quirked in a half-smile as he indulged Anthony’s demands; he reached out, paused, squinted his eyes, then reached out again. “It feels ... “ He brushed his fingers over the fabric “... not magic, but something else …” He peeled one flap back “... baking bread? Warm from the oven? …” Another flap, a curve revealed “... oranges? …” The last edge of wool opened and he gasped, surprise flooding through the bond “... it can’t be. There’s no way it survived …” 

“Great war era, probably made 50 or so years earlier, found up North, part of a cache of military items.” Anthony was suffused with Steven’s ache of longing tinged with a hint of loneliness. “Go ahead. Touch.” 

His other hand on Anthony’s shoulder for support, Steven grazed the lid with his thumb. 

The backlash of emotion poured into Anthony, a wash of numbers and integrals, bridging the gap with a simple formula that linked two vast equations. Bits of memories floated through the bond. Softness and sadness -- a blonde-haired woman, hands covered in flour, kneading dough on the table. Laughter and respect -- a brunette, seated on a dragon, hair tied in a braid that whipped behind her as they flew. Anger and loathing-- a man surrounded by red sparks of magic, hatred in his gaze. Love and loss -- James, falling, his scream echoing. 

“Gods,” Steven murmured, a tremble in his voice. “Bucky.” 

***Steve*** James’ thought rang clear. ***I’m alive. I’m coming***

“It felt like you,” Anthony said, covering the hand on his shoulder with his own, strengthening the connection. “When the guy brought it out, I knew it was yours.” 

“My ma gave it to me; it belonged to her father, one of the only things she had left of him. I took it with me, kept it in my pocket.” Steve turned the lid over and stroked the inside. “I made a little sketch, me and Buck and Peggy, nothing fancy, and put it here. To remind me what we were fighting for … love and friendship and all the people who just wanted to live their lives. I can’t believe … Tony, this is …” 

“A hell of a coincidence?” Anthony squeezed his fingers. “I don’t believe in them. This guy, MacLeod, his shop was filled with really old stuff … Pepper’s going to kill me when she hears how much I spent but it doesn’t matter. I swear he was waiting for us to come in, had these all wrapped and ready to drop on us.” 

“There’s more?” Steven picked up the compass bottom and curled his fingers around it; he nodded towards the box. “Is that …” 

“This one is mine.” Anthony carefully opened the box and pulled it out to unwrap. “I had gloves on, so I’m not sure what’s going to happen when I touch it with …” 

His thumb path grazed one of the triangular inner metal pieces. His heart jumped in his throat, pounding faster and faster as a flare of power ran from the glowing circle in his chest. 

“I’ve got you,” Steven said, shifting so his fingers were on the bare skin of Anthony’s neck. “I’m not letting you go.” 

Steadying himself, Anthony turned the piece over and took a tiny pair of tweezers from the tool kit nearby, dipping the ends into the broken bit of the outer metal. The tip touched the delicate shiny metal and …

_ “... one day you’ll figure it out and you will change the world …”  _

_ His father, grey-haired, shimmering projection on a wall.  _

_ “There’s no way you come out of this on top."  _

_ Rhodey, pale and still, lying on the ground, armor smashed and bent.  _

_ “I don’t care; he killed my mom.” _

_ James, wounded and bloody, sprawled on the icy floor; Steven,, face a mask of anger, slamming his fist into Anthony. _

_ “That up there? That’s the endgame.” _

_ A dark-haired man on a battlefield, chaos of the fight around him, raising one finger. _

_ Golden gauntlet encrusted with gems. _

_ Anthony snapped.  _

_ Pain.  _

_ Power charging through his body.  _

_ Agony. _

_ The vastness of Space laid out before him _

_ Spasms. _

_ All of Time in the palm of his hand. _

_ Burning.  _

_ Infinity variations, possibility upon possibility of Realities. _

_ Convulsions.  _

_ His Mind expanded to encompass it all.  _

_ Anguish.  _

_ Tight bond, Soul tied to Soul tied to Soul tied to … _

“Tony!” Steven’s voice echoed, doubled, and tripled, reverberating.

_ (“He’s my friend, Tony.”) _

***Tony!*** James’s concern mixed with his doubts, his guilt. 

_ (“I remember all of them”) _

***Tony!*** Natasha’s worry and frustration at being so far away. __

_ (“I’m not the one who needs to watch their back”) _

He tried to clear his head, but phantom pains wracked his body and he couldn’t get a breath. Too many images … memories … thoughts … he couldn’t break the cycle. They spiraled around him, dragging him down into unconsciousness.

* * *

Eileen was waiting by the side gate. 

“No.” Dean shook his head for good measure. “Morse thinks I need a babysitter? I can handle this on my own.”

“It was either me or Jo since Ellen’s behind the bar tonight,” Eileen replied. “Since you and Jo have history, I thought I was the better option.”

“Jo and I never …” He cut short when he saw Eileen’s smile. “Tell me Ellen doesn’t still believe I slept with Jo. We just pretended to be married on that one hunt.” 

“She wouldn’t offer to send Jo if she did.” Eileen chuckled. “But she does know about Jo’s crush on you, so that makes things awkward.”

“Look, this is a personal errand, I don’t think …” Dean trailed off as Eileen bumped into his shoulder and started walking. 

“Which is why I’m perfect. I can watch your back and not hear a thing. Privacy and protection!” She paused and looked back over her shoulder. “Are you coming?” 

She had a point; she could guard the door and he would feel a lot better with a second set of eyes. So he shrugged and gave up the argument, ignoring her smug look as they headed down the street. His hand strayed to the leather pouch he’d hung on a string around his neck, the metal safely wrapped inside. It was warm against his skin, a comforting weight in the middle of his chest. 

The place Pamela Barnes had picked for their meeting was on the outskirts of Burosey, in one of the ramshackle parts of the city. Closer to the river than the sea, the area was filled with ancient stone walls, patched and chinked over the long years they’d been standing. Foundations from a bygone era held up newer structures; there were stories of tunnels under foot with bricked walls and stone floors, long metal rails that disappeared into darkness and under collapsed ceilings. Buildings that predated the great war and the war before that, some even older. 

The moon was rising as they arrived, the evening star shining over the tower of the castle and its night sister above. Reddish bricks made up the outer wall; Dean pushed open the simple wrought iron gate and entered a small, neatly tended courtyard. Before him was a two-story building made of a mix of the same bricks and older, white ones that were half crumbled and held together with clay and lime. The windows were simple glazed panes with fresh-cut shutters, front pillars shored up with extra wooden beams. The roof sagged, a gap at the peak covered with a tarp. Someone was committed to the upkeep of what was clearly a very old place. 

“Stay behind me,” Dean signed as they walked up the three stairs to the front portico. 

OLD FIRST BYTER MEETING HALL the sign posted by the double doors declared.

Inside was a half wall that separated the entry foyer from the space beyond. Buttresses held the roof above, the stone walls rising unimpeded for both stories. Simple wooden benches were in lines facing a long table. Only a few decorations adorned the wall; the largest was a quilted banner hung above the table, a pattern of interlocking rings. On the right of the table was the only other door in the place. 

Sitting on the first bench was a woman, hair loose around her shoulders. She turned as they entered; a pair of darkened glasses covered her eyes. She was younger than Dean expected although silver shot through the black curls near her temples. As she rose, she stood taller than Eileen, but not close to Dean’s height. 

“You brought a friend,” she said in way of introduction. “A woman from the lightness of her tread. That’s good; somehow, whenever a Winchester is around, trouble follows.” 

“It’s a gift,” he said, signing for Eileen to cover the exits as he came to where the woman was. “Don’t have to search out the monsters, they come to me.” 

The woman laughed and held out her hand. “I heard you have a smart mouth. Pamela Barnes.” 

“Dean.” He offered his own; her fingers had sword calluses and her palm was roughed from holding reins. “You have some information for me?” 

“First, there’s this,” she replied. Reaching inside her jacket, she pulled out an envelope with a wax seal. “We've been waiting a long time to deliver this message. It’s for a certain friend of yours with a metal arm. He’s supposedly one of Lord Stark’s bodyguards.” 

Dean glanced down; the name James Buchanan Barnes was written neatly on the outside. That was the only identifying mark. “Sorry, I’m not sure …” 

“I am. The sight runs in the family; trust me, one Barnes knows another.” She tapped his chest with the edge of the paper. “After the Great War, one of my ancestors had a vision; she wrote a letter then gave detailed instructions to give it to a hunter named Dean on the night of alignment over Stark Castle. We kept it safe and whole until now and I’m pretty excited to be the one who passes it on.” 

“The Great War, huh?” Dean took it and turned it over twice, holding it up to the light from the nearest candle stand. “Have to do a magic check, of course.” 

“Of course,” she agreed, watching as he started to tuck it into an inner pocket. “Not that one; the one on the right side.” 

“What?” he paused and stared at her. 

“Put it in the pocket on your right,” she repeated. “Trust me.” 

He scowled but did as she asked, patting it flat. “Fine,” he huffed, already tired of the vagaries of prophecy and lack of straight answers. “But if that’s all you have …” 

“He’s barred from this world.” She cut him off. “It’s part of his punishment.” 

The words froze Dean where he stood. “What do you mean? Who’s barred?”

“The one who put those marks on your arms, the one you’re looking for.” She reached out a hand, paused, then asked, “Can I touch you? It’s how I see and will ground our connection. I might get more.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean steeled himself but her hand barely registered, just a light graze over his jacket. 

“Gods, such a strong bond,” she murmured as she stroked over one then the other. “To span not just distance and time, but through the veil itself.”

“You said he was being punished. By who? For what?” Dean couldn’t stop the questions that were bubbling up; she was probably making the whole thing up but it was the closest he’d come to any information. 

“Eager for answers, I see. I imagined I’d be too if half of me was missing.” She patted him on the shoulder. “I’m not clear on who’s doing the punishing … his father or his family or maybe some being I’ve never heard of … but I’m very certain about the why. He fell in love with you, Dean, against every law and natural order, risked his life to save you, picked you, a human, over everything else.”

“Loving me?” Dean took a step back as the import of her words sank in. “A human. He’s not …” 

“I don’t know what he is,” she admitted. “He came to me in a dream, with a thousand eyes and raven black wings, a thundering voice and grace so bright even I had to look away. But then he was a man, no different than anyone you’d meet on the street. He told me he’d chosen me because he owed me, said there was one chance for you, this moment. That this time you had to drag him from perdition.” 

“Honestly, I don’t know whether you’re insane or playing a long con,” Dean said. “How am I supposed to believe any of this? Veils and wings”

“He said that was your problem, that you needed to have faith.” 

_ “Good  _ _ things do happen, Dean.” _

“Faith, destiny, fate … I don’t believe any of it,” Dean objected as the voice echoed in his head. 

“Says the man who’s aura is connected to at least …” She tilted her head, “... fifteen, eighteen others?” 

“I don’t know …” 

Dean jumped as glass rained down as an upper window shattered. With a gasp, Pamela jerked, crossbow bolt sinking into her right shoulder. Dean caught her as she slumped, easing her to the bench as Bullseye came through the opening, tumbling across the floor and coming to a stop in front of them, double bolted crossbow at the ready.

“Poindexter,” Dean growled, stepping between the threat and Pamela.

“Sorry, Poindexter isn’t here right now.” Bullseye laughed and a chill ran down Dean’s spine; he blinked and his eyes turned wholly black. “He really should be careful who he makes deals.” 

“Demon,” Pamela whispered. “They’ve broken through.” 

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Bullseye said. “After all this time and we’re right back where we were. Hunting Winchesters, buying souls; the more things change, the more they stay the same.” 

Eileen tried to go for her sword; the crossbow fired and the bolt landed next to her, driving into the wooden wall. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Bullseye waggled his finger. “Stay still or I’ll really break your heart, darling.” 

“What do you want?” Dean demanded. “Me? Well, here I am; let them go and you can have me.” 

Another laugh but his aim didn’t waver. “So I can kill you and you can come back to life? Sorry, but we’re onto your little secret. Dean Winchester, the man who can’t die. Ever wonder why that is?” 

“You going to tell me … for a price? I know how that works and I ain’t buying what your kind is selling, so you can shut the fuck up.” Anger growing, Dean took a step closer. “So what are you going to do? Take over the guild, make some deals? Report back to your boss, MacLeod?” 

“Oh, this is rich. You don’t have a clue, do you? MacLeod?” Bullseye’s grin widened. “You think Crowley’s in charge? He’s a has-been, also-ran who bet on the wrong horse. No, the guild was Poindexter’s idea; we have our eye on the bigger picture, a world ripe for picking. We’ll have our choice of souls. So many willing to sign up, what with the coming war and all.” 

“Over my dead body,” Dean countered. “Which means never.” 

“There are other ways to take you and your brother off the board. After I’m done with these two lovely ladies … takes time to come back, doesn’t it, after you die? … I’ll head up to the Castle. So many vantage points on those big windows to Stark’s workshop and rooms; easy to pick them off, one-by-one, Stark, those two bodyguards he’s fucking, the spitfire red-head who joins them, that nosy chatelaine, and the head of the guard. Then I’ll move on to your ex-girlfriend Morse and the others who helped you. Ellen.” He paused and licked his lips. “Definitely make little Jo last for a long while, maybe take her along when I head up to that Holding where your brother is. Him, his girlfriend, Barton and his husband, the brunette and her clerk …” He sighed, the sound a twisted pleasure. “Going to be so much fun.” 

“You’re an idiot.” Dean took another step forward.

“You can’t stop us,” Bullseye said. 

“I might not be able to, but they sure as hell will.” One more step. “You touch one of ‘em and the rest will rain vengeance on your and your boss and your boss’ boss.”

“You think so?” Bullseye asked. “Let’s test that, shall we?” 

He swung the crossbow and fired at Eileen. 

Dean jumped into the quarrel’s path, felt the punch of it sinking into his back and the agony of it nicking his heart. 

“Exorciamus te, omnis immundus spiritus …” Pamela’s voice began to fade. 

Dying hurt, damn it, no matter how many times he did it. 

He sank into darkness.

Stopped breathing. 

_ Smelled leather and oil and something else. _

_ Blinked. _

_ Opened his eyes to find moonlight filtering through an expanse of clear glass. A seat cradled him, his boots on the floor and his hands resting on the black covered cushions. Before him was a wheel and a panel with metal knobs; to his left was a door and above, a roof. Some sort of carriage, with room for two in the front and two in the back. Music, too low to hear the words, filled the cabin.  _

_ “Dean.” A gruff rumble of a voice came from the seat next to him. Blue eyes, dark hair, crooked smile … Dean knew that face, knew that body better than he did his own.  _

_ “Cas.” Dean’s hand crossed the distance before he consciously thought about moving it. Fingertips grazed along the scruffy jaw. A jolt ran up his arm, bonding marks flaring to life. “How could I have forgotten you?”  _

_ “We don’t have long before you must return and there are things I need to tell you. This is the first chance in generations we have to break the spell.” Cas caught Dean’s hand and tangled their fingers together.  _

_ “I’m dead.” Dean worked through the implications, lifetimes of knowledge now at his disposal. “I can see you here, but when I go back, I won’t remember. Through the veil, another world. That’s what she meant.”  _

_ “Yes, in heaven, they can’t keep us apart, but that’s not important right now.” Cas squeezed Dean’s hand and stared at him with an intense gaze. “Find the tablet, take it to Bobby’s, have the prophet translate the incantation. Then I can come to you.”  _

_ “Tablet, Bobby, Prophet. Got it … where is it?” A tingle started in Dean’s toes and fingers. “It’s a big world, Cas; give me a hint where to start.”  _

_ “I left it where you’d find it.” Cas’s other hand came to rest on Dean’s chest, his palm covering the leather pouch tucked beneath his shirt. Like dry tinder, the touch kindled a fire, the third mark sinking into Dean’s skin. “You already have what you need. But hurry; others have already cracked the edges. Be careful; they’ll be coming for you.” _

_ The tingle climbed up his calves and hit his elbows. “Yeah, met one already. But I’ve got back up; I’ll be okay.”  _

_ “The others; that’s one of the things that’s different this time. Together, maybe, we can put a stop to them once and for all.”  _

_ “Cas, I’m ..” Dean trembled; the light faded around the edges of his vision. “I miss you.”  _

_ “I’m always watching over you,” Cas promised, leaning closer. “I took a vow, Dean. Forever. No matter what.”  _

_ Dean surged forward, closing the distance, kissing Cas like a drowning man gasps for air.  _

_ “I’ll find it,” Dean promised as he came undone, molecules floating apart. “I love …”  _

_ He had no form, was no thing.  _

_ "...there'll be peace when you are ..." _

_ Darkness. _

Breath.

“... you, Cas,” he murmured

Blinking.

In the flickering candlelight, wide brown eyes stared down at him, Eileen’s hair hanging about her face.

“Dean?” she asked. “Are you …”

“Ouch.” Dean pushed up and glanced around. 

On the nearest bench, Pamela cradled her shoulder, a makeshift bandage covering her wound. 

Spread eagle on the floor, Bullseye lay dead. 

“You got him?” Dean croaked, his throat dry. 

“Wasn’t me.” Eileen glanced at the body. “I hit him but it didn’t slow him down. I had time to duck and cover before he reloaded and got off another shot. Then you … those marks on your arms …” She gulped. 

“I warned her to close her eyes,” Pamela said. “There was this high pitched noise …”

“... and a bright light,” Eileen added. “I was behind the wall and put my hands over my eyes. Whatever the thing was inside of him, well, it was blasted out and burst into flame. Never seen anything like it.” 

“Your aura’s different.” Pamela tilted her head as if studying him. “You found something on the other side, didn’t you?”

“I did.” Dean offered her his hand and helped her stand. “A chance.” 

Tablet. Bobby’s. Prophet. 

He repeated the words to himself, burning them into his memory along with a name. 

Castiel.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Dean and Cas at the end is one of the two scenes I had in my head when I started this story. The second scene will open the last chapter. 
> 
> To clarify, the compass is Steven's from this generation of heroes, not the one from The First Avenger Steve Rogers. That's why the memories are less powerful (albeit still important). 
> 
> It's really, really hard to describe the housing for the arc reactor; the slim metal on the inside is the element Tony discovers in Iron Man 2 that he uses to power the reactor instead of Palladium, which was poisoning him. In the movie they hint it's vibranium; later movies walked that back. Vibranium could survive thousands of years, right? (Just nod and toss a cookie to your fanfic writer. Let me have my illusion). 
> 
> The quotes after he touches it are from Howard in Iron Man 2, Tony in Avengers, Civil War, and AOU. Bet you can figure out what happens in that last bit of magical shenanigans *winks*
> 
> Pamela Barnes is an SPN character who lost her eyesight due to a seance where they tried to talk to Castiel in early season 4 (thus he "owes" her). Couldn't pass up the coincidence of her last name to go all Back to the Future. ;)
> 
> Demons? What are they doing in this Medieval 'Vengers Cakeverse? Hmmmmm .....
> 
> And, finally, Castiel makes his first appearance. In the Impala, no less. :)
> 
> All will be revealed ... at some point ... :)
> 
> Really convenient that Eileen is deaf and Pamela blind, eh? I just make use of the canon, folks, when it suits me.


	5. Chapter #5: Lay Your Weary Head to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony learns it's okay to have doubts. Dean sets off to look answers. And James, well, he may find a little peace before it's done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we come to the end of this short domestic fic in the Medieval 'Vengers Cakeverse. Hope you've enjoyed it! Stay tuned for the next in the series.

_ “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers. Did you know?”  _

_ “Yes _ .” 

Anthony jerked awake, drenched in sweat as the dream echoed. 

_ Steven, trying to kill him.  _

_ James, battered and bleeding.  _

_ Natasha, walking away.  _

_ Philip, dead but not dead. _

_ Clint, behind bars. _

_ Rhodes, deathly still.  _

_ Virginia, telling him to rest.  _

“You’re safe.” 

Hearing Steven’s voice sent Tony skittering out of bed and across the floor; he curled up by the armoire, back in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest. At the first tentative touch, he swatted the hand away and slammed shut the connection through the bond. 

_ “A warm light for all mankind.” _

“No. Don’t.” 

His chest rose and fell, breaths shallow and quick. Impulses raced through his body, electrical jolts of panic. Thoughts jumped from one to the next, replaying the images and dredging up matching emotions, once changing to the next too fast to even register. So much, too much, he couldn’t handle it, the sheer knowledge that battered in his brain. 

“Hey.” Steven knelt in front of him. “You’re in your room. We’re here with you.” 

_ “We used to be a family.”  _

“Not … I hurt you, both of you. Tried to …” Tony bit back a sob deep in his throat. “It’s so real, I swear I can feel it, the cold and the bruises and so much damned pain. The only way. It was the only way.” 

Jumbled numbers spiraled and he couldn’t find the beginning or see the ending. Variables multiplied and added up to an astronomical total that made no logical sense. He squeezed his eyes shut and ducked his head. 

_ “Peace in our time.” _

“Tony.”

Cool metal touched his cheek, the whir of gears in his ear. Cogs and wheels and he remembered the delicate filigree and intricate workings, the tempering of silver and heat of gold. Turning his head, he leaned into the palm, the caress slowing his brain and breaking through the chaos. 

“You’re back.” Anthony exhaled and waited until his galloping heart slowed. “Don’t wanna bother you. You’ve got more important things to do.” 

“Is that why you’ve been closing yourself off? You think you’re a bother?” James stroked his thumb along Anthony’s jaw. “Don’t be sorry, darlin’; you’re important too.”

“Stopping the Sorcerer and his minions. That’s important. Last thing you need is my bullshit dumped on you; I can keep that to myself.” 

“First, nothing about you is bullshit,” James said. “Secondly, we don’t expect you to share everything with us. Nothing wrong with wanting privacy. We can teach you how to do that if you want.” 

“What?” Anthony’s eyelids flew open. “You two don’t know everything about each other’s business? I thought that was how bonds worked, all on, all the time.” 

“Good gods, no.” Steven joined them on the floor. “Buck would go crazy if he knew every time I was hungry or had to pee.”

“Nat and her knife shopping. I mean, I like a good blade, but the woman gets positively obsessed,” James added. 

“Sitting at court while the rest of you go at it is pretty awkward,” Anthony agreed. “Not that it would be unusual for me to be distracted but I am trying to change my image.” 

James smiled and the man really was too charming to ignore. “We all have things we hide, Tony, thoughts and actions and the shit we don’t want to deal with. Even Stevie here; he only looks perfect. On the inside, he’s as big a mess as we are.” 

“Buck.” Steven arched an eyebrow at them both. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“He thinks we won’t love him if we see who he really is,” James objected. “Show him, Steve. So he knows we’re all broken and human.” 

“Yeah, show me yours, Stevie, and I’ll show you mine.” Anthony intended it to be a challenge, but it came out damn needy instead.

“How do these conversations always end up with everyone ganging up on me?” Steven asked.

“Because you’re our foundation.” James grinned. “You hold us together.” 

“Oh, don’t turn that charisma on me, James Buchanan Barnes. I’m going to do it.” Steven reached out and slipped a hand on the opposite cheek and Anthony was centered by heat and cold, a perfect balance. Then he leaned forward and rested his forehead on Anthony’s. “Let me know if it’s too much.” 

_ A slight little boy, sitting in the dark. Coughs that rattled his chest, a fever that rampaged his body. Loud voice, angry fist flying, a woman crying. Other children laughing, running, playing. Bigger boys jeering, towering over him. A gravestone, tears, shivering in the cold.  _

_ “I could do this all day.”  _

“I never fit in anywhere, not even in the army,” Steve murmured. “Everyone left me … Dad, Mom, and then Bucky.” 

_ Not good enough, not strong enough. Can’t run, can’t fight. Useless. Bitter potion, a dark cylinder, pain. Do what you’re told, be what they made you.  _

_ “Everything good about you came from a bottle.” _

  
  


_ James falling. Couldn’t save him. The Red Sorcerer’s army. Couldn’t stop them. Ice filling his lungs. Couldn’t save anyone. Waking. What use am I? What am I here for?  _

_ “They didn’t say all we lost.”  _

“You think that you have to save us to have value.” Anthony curled his fingers around Steven’s wrist. “And I believe I have to solve every problem to be worthy. James over here is convinced he’s unlovable because of the shit he was forced to do. Natasha’s all about the red in her ledger. Wow. We are all really fucked up. Let’s start a club.” 

Steven started to chuckle. “Gods above, Tony, you are the best.” 

“Tell that to Rhodey; he’s seen me falling down drunk and held my head while I threw up. Pretty sure he’d pick a different adjective.” 

“I imagine he has all sorts of words to describe you.” It was easy for Steven to tilt his head and kiss Anthony. “Now, want to tell us what happened? You touched that thing then passed out.” 

“The artifact.” Anthony pushed their hands away and used their shoulders to get up. “What happened to it? Is it still in the workshop? We shouldn’t leave it unguarded.” 

“I wrapped and packed it away after we got you up here,” Steven assured him, standing too. “Pepper put both it and the compass in the safe.”

“Good. Good. I need to look at it again, do some testing on the metal …” Anthony took two steps then promptly sank down onto the chaise by the fireplace as the room spun. “Right. Not right this minute. I need wine and … did I miss dinner? What time is it anyway?” 

“It’s morning,” James said, rising from the floor; Anthony noticed for the first time he was wearing his only his underwear. “You slept all night.”

Wan early light poured through the windows and Anthony’s stomach rumbled. “Breakfast then? I could eat a whole plate of bacon.” 

Steven rang the bell and walked in the next room to send the page stationed outside the door scurrying off to the kitchen. “When you woke, you said something about hurting us?” he asked when he came back in.

“It was you, but not you. I was trying to kill him and you were trying to stop me and we were beating the hell out of each other. I think it was about my mother; I didn’t know, you hid it from me, and I found out. We weren’t …” Anthony shifted over as Steve joined him on the seat “... together or anything like that. I was angry, livid …” 

James took a step back; Anthony grabbed his hand and tugged him closer, pulling him down on the chaise with them. There wasn’t really enough room, but Anthony managed to squeeze between the two of them. “I’m not mad at you, so no running.” 

“I’m staying,” James promised. “I still don’t know why you forgave me, but I’m not leaving.” 

“Because it was the geas,” Anthony told him, patting a hand on his thigh. “The other me didn’t know that, didn’t know a lot of things. Tasha left me, Rhodey was hurt, Clint was in jail … and really mad at me … and then there was this battle, a big one, all of us there fighting an army of monsters. There was this wizard in a red cape; he held up a finger and I …” the word choked his throat “... died.”

“We’re not going to let that happen, Tones,” James assured him. “Steve and I won’t let it.” 

“I think it was one of those past lives Strange showed Clint. It was the only option to win and I made the choice.” Anthony stopped, the memory of that space between tick and tock, after his last breath but before his heart stopped making him shiver. The whole universe with every calculation complete, every variable solved; he’d understood it all. But the knowledge had faded like a dream.”

“Past lives. Still difficult for me to understand,” Steven wrapped an arm around Anthony’s shoulders, offering his warmth. “The sorcerer keeps talking about stopping us as if we’ve met him in battle before; that might be what you were dreaming about.” 

“You remember Great Aunt Louise? The one who lived in that weird house out by the river?” James asked. “She told those odd tales, the ones about a time before magic.”

“She made those super sweet lemon scones. I got a stomach ache if I ate a whole one but I did anyway.” Steven’s chuckle settled along Anthony’s skin. 

“Her stories always started ‘‘After, there was little to do but survive,’ or ‘in the First Age, the Time of Darkness,’ and they always ended in a war.” 

“We win but we lose. Destruction that changes the world,” Steven said with a sigh. “Surviving, indeed.”

“The odds, though, that we find each other again and again?” Anthony mused. “ I could map space easier than make those calculations. And the same villain cropping up for us to fight? Happening randomly?” 

“But we don’t always find each other.” James slipped his arm around Anthony’s waist bracketing him with two strong bodies. “When I was on ice, sometimes I’d dream. Of Steve and Peggy and the Howlies and mom and my sisters, mostly. But every now and then, there was a red-headed spitfire who fought alongside me; that’s why I knew Nat when I saw her in that cave. Or Steve leaving me to go back and be with Peggy. In one, I died in the fall and Steve went on without me; in another, Steve died and I was left alone. I thought they were just nightmares, but they could be lives that went in other directions.”

“Tony’s got a point, though. Even if we’re angry at each other, we’re still together,” Steven argued. “Maybe that’s why soul bonds exist, to connect us and pull us towards each other.”

“Or to three others,” James added with a laugh. “Feel a little bit guilty about Dean not knowing who put those marks on his arms when I have all of you.”

“Winchester. Damn it.” Anthony thunked his head onto Steven’s shoulder. “I forgot. The guy at the shop gave him the third artifact. We need to warn him.” 

“I saw him heading into the city when I rode in; he was with a woman, a brunette,” James said. 

“We’ll send him a message, see what he’s up to,” Steven promised. “But first and clothes.”

As Steven rose to take care of things, James leaned against the chair’s back, taking Anthony with him as he sprawled out. “Personally, I think we were meant to find you; it’s not some random accident.” 

“That’s even more concerning,” Anthony admitted. “Because if it is some kind of magical spell with intention,, the power to do that would be astronomical and beyond imagining. More than the Sorcerer is capable of.” 

James grew still. “Damn. I didn’t think of that.” 

* * *

“Not even going to say goodbye?” 

Eileen was sitting in a chair, sipping a cup of coffee; beside her was another mug and a plate of those delicate pastries the chef made for Anthony. Dean paused, dropped his pack on the floor, and poured himself some from the still steaming pot. 

“Just getting ready; I’ve got a few things to do before I can head out.” Dean snagged one of the honey glazed bear claws with sugared almonds. “Have to talk to Tony and send a few messages. Want to check in with Ellen, see how Pamela is doing.” 

They’d taken the wounded seer to the tavern where a back room was set up for healing. Ellen believed in being prepared for everything and after the Battle of Burosey, she’d started stocking up on potions and lotions and salves. Lincoln, one of Bobbi’s guild members, volunteered to use his cleric training to help. 

“Was an explanation for me on that list? Don’t try to tell you you didn’t die last night. That bolt went right through your heart.” She looked up at him, fierce and determined to get answers; Dean was impressed. Her interrogation techniques had come a long way. 

“I died. I’m back.” Dean shrugged. “It’s a thing.” 

“There are rumors, of course.” She put her cup on the table. “And I’ve seen the strange and odd, enough to make me open to any possibilities.” 

With a flick of her wrist, she tossed salt at him. Dean blinked and brushed it off his shoulders. “I”m not …” 

Water from a flask splashed his face. “Not that either.” 

“Damn. You do bleed red, so you’re not a ghoul.” She tilted her head and looked him up and down. “That wasn’t the first time, was it? You can’t die?” 

“Far as I know, I can’t.” Dean surveyed his pastry for damage then took a bite. 

“But there are new wrinkles by your eyes and a scar on your wrist.” 

“And I get sick too; caught the flu last year and was in bed for a week.” He shrugged. “Sam’s theory is that it’s a curse or spell and that I’ll die of old age.” 

“Only you, Dean. It could only happen to you,” she said. “So, when do we leave?” 

Dean did a double-take at the change of topic. “We? We don’t. I’m going to Bobby’s to do some research.” 

“I may not know Lord Stark, but something tells me if you hie off alone, he’ll insist someone go with you. I’ll save you the trouble of having to argue with him.” She smiled. “I’m packed and ready when you are. Been a while since I’ve seen Bobby; it’ll be nice to visit.” 

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t know where I’m going from there,” Dean objected. 

“Whatever you’re chasing, Dean, I can help. You saved my life last night; let me do what little I can. Besides, I read seven languages and know Bobby’s organizational system almost as well as Sam does.” 

The pouch around his neck grew warm, weighing heavier as it pressed into the newly made bonding mark. 

“Fine. Maybe Bobby won’t yell at me if you’re there,” Dean gave in. “You can head down to the kitchen, get provisions. Make sure and ask for the spicy sausage croissant rolls; those are the best.” 

“Meet you in the stables,” she said, snatching another sweet roll from the tray. 

* * *

James watched as Dean retreated down the hallway; in the sitting room, Steven and Anthony were still discussing whether one of them should go with him. There was certainly more to Dean’s story about an assassin and a tablet he needed to find than he was telling, but he had a right to his privacy. James’ hadn’t been joking when he’d told Anthony everyone deserved to keep their own secrets; he had plenty that he wasn’t ready to talk about and some he’d never let see the light of day. 

What the envelope in his hand was, he didn’t yet know. Dean had slipped it to him as he left, and James trusted him enough to take it, no questions asked. Walking through the bedroom, he circled through the wardrobe and out onto the smaller of the three terraces, the one that faced north, the mountains looming in the distance. Sitting on the balustrade, he broke the seal and slipped out the papers, unfolding them carefully and started reading. 

_ Dear Bucky, _

_ I do not know if this will ever reach you but I have to write and tell you of the dream I had last night. It’s imperative that I pass along what I’ve seen and what may come to be. To be honest, I am struggling to understand what it means, how any of it could come true, but I have long ago learned not to question the power of the sight.  _

_ Yes, the sight runs in our family and it is now my lot to portend the future and read omens. Father always said we weren’t a magical family but Mother stayed quiet; she knew even before you joined the army that it was me who would be touched. That I would become a seer and pass it along to my grandchildren who would pass it along to theirs until it would come to a young blind woman who will, if all goes as planned, deliver this letter to you.  _

_ Rebecca Barnes, oracle. How you would have laughed to hear your little sister called that. Of course, you didn’t because you never came back. I cried so the day Steven’s message arrived; Mother locked herself in her room and didn’t come out for seven days. At least you were bonded by then and he was with you; you were always inseparable except for that self-sacrificing phase when you were afraid to tell him how much you loved him and thought going away a good idea. We missed you so much; even now, when I have grown children of my own, I think of your stupid face and wish you here to be the doting great uncle who tells stories of the war and hands out peppermint candy.  _

_ But now I know you are still alive, somewhere far from here, somewhere cold and unforgiving and dark. I’ve dreamed of it, Buck, the place where you’re kept, felt the pain you will endure. I heard the Sorcerer’s voice, his mocking claim of bringing peace by destroying all of mankind. An evil that has lived from beyond time as we know it. I saw Steven encased in ice. Lines of color, braided and twined together. A hawk and spiders and hunters and a falcon. Stones that danced. Black feathered wings and beings with black eyes. A king of hell and a land without a king. Metal fingers and chiseled stone tablets. And you, Steven in front of you, a red-haired woman on your right side, a man in red and gold armor on your left. Fighting the good fight, bathed in light. Far in the future but somehow deep in the past.  _

_ I wish I could make more sense of it, but that’s not the way the visions work. To learn you are out there, that Mother’s firm belief you were meant for greater things was right all along, gives me hope in these long days of surviving and rebuilding. Oh, I have lived a good life, do not mistake me, with a loving husband and both food on the table and a roof over our heads, but I have mourned you, brother, and felt the hopelessness shared by all families who lost in that senseless war. As my days grow shorter, I take comfort knowing you and yours are waiting, coming, ready for when we need you most.  _

_ When I awoke, a song lingered in my head. Great Aunt Louise used to rock me to sleep, singing her own lyrics to the old hymn. Remember when we learned the words were quite different? When Bishop Kagni heard our version? I haven’t thought of it in years, but it won’t stop playing over and over again. I suspect that means it’s important, so I’m writing the lyrics for you. I hope you haven’t forgotten; I see so much darkness on your path, and I wish I could be with you. Know that we never stopped loving you and that Mother and I were both so proud of you.  _

_ Your sister always, _

_ Rebecca Barnes Proctor _

  
  


_ Amazing bonds, how sweet the touch _

_ That brought me to the light _

_ I once was dead, but now I live _

_ Was wrong but now I’m right. _

_ Was a bond that taught my heart to love _

_ And worked to make me whole _

_ How precious did those bonds appear _

_ Every time, they saved my soul.  _

_ Through many dangers, toils and snares _

_ We’ve lived and loved and lost _

_ Together we’ll make things safe once more _

_ Though some will pay the cost. _

_ Amazing bonds, how sweet the sound _

_ They’ll bring walls tumbling down  _

_ I once was dead but now I live _

_ Was gone but now I’m found. _

  
  


“Buck?” Steven laid a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?” 

He dashed the tears from the corners of his eyes and handed Steven the letter. 

“A message from home.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story is a small scope; I'm introducing ideas and continuing on with ones that began in other stories. Here, Tony, Steve, and Bucky are talking about the concept of reincarnation laid out at the end of "Under the Brave Black Flag." 
> 
> Dean is off to look for the tablet; we'll see more of him in later editions of these domestic shorts. Eileen may make further appearances too. After all, he's got to round up a prophet who can translate the tablet ... *wink*
> 
> The next domestic short will take us back to Barton Hold to check in on Darcy's pregnancy and how both Bruce and the Hulk are handling impending fatherhood. Phil and Clint will be around, getting things ready for the Frasierton Fall Festival and thinking about celebrating their first anniversary together. 
> 
> I adore the idea of Becca reaching from the past and reminding Bucky that he's loved. The song there is one of most popular hymns, Amazing Grace. 
> 
> Great Aunt Louise is loosely patterned after my mother. She taught me a song that went "At the bar, at the bar, where I smoked my first cigar, and the nickles and the dimes rolled away. It was there by stitches that I tore my Sunday britches and now I wear them every day." It's a famous hymn that I did sing once at vacation bible school, much to the minister and my mother's consternation.

**Author's Note:**

> Eileen Leahy is a hunter on Supernatural. She's alive and fine, no one tell me any differently. *sticks fingers in ears and sings loudly* She flirted with Sam and is canonically deaf. 
> 
> Ben Poindexter/Bullseye is a Marvel villain. He's appeared in numerous comics, often linked to Daredevil and Hawkeye. At one point, he took over as Hawkeye during Norman Osborne's Dark Avengers. He's a psychopath and nasty piece of work. 
> 
> For non-Supernatural fans, Crowley's favorite nicknames for Sam & Dean are Moose and Squirrel. 
> 
> Benden wine. HEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE. (Hey, there are dragons in the world and people who ride them ....)


End file.
